• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 11

The Green Maws of Night

My spot picked out by prickly pear cactus
a point of night edged hard by the Pampas
a separate patch from both jaguars,
spiders in their human form; of land rat.

I am aware the green jaws of my dreams
like a woman’s remorseless work of hands
grind, pummel and knead my pulp into squash
much the same red as this fresh new blanket

swaddling me, shoulders to sandaled toes
and is black, black as blood in the moonlight:
unless I am already asleep, easy
a tad watchful, waiting for reckless night.